Now it's out in the open.
Spike wondered if he should say anything. The silence scratched at him and he wondered what sort of comment would be most appropriate to shatter the quiet with. All the colour had fallen away from Faye's face. She looked as though she welcomed the floor opening beneath her and swallowing her up. He ran his fingers tentatively over the stitches in his gutt. He felt every mottled, crusted bit of them. He decided he didn't want to be the first person to enter the realm of wherever the hell Faye's admission had taken them.
"Spike..."
"Don't you have to go find Jet?" He said abruptly. It was cruel but it had to be done. She had to be as far away from him as possible. It was the only way she'd get over this thing. He tossed his glance towards the ceiling. Away from her sad face. He was hating this as much as she was.
"Yeah..." She whispered. Then cleared her throat and stood. She hurried off down the corridor that lead to her room.
Spike lay back down on the couch. He rubbed at his stitches again. He thought about how unlike Julia Faye actually was. For someone who didn't believe in ghosts, aside from those pesky ones that would return from the past, the memory of Julia haunted him daily. He thought of her every few moments as though his thoughts fueled her miraculous resurrection from the dead. As though she would disappear entirely if he stopped thinking about her for even a minute.
Poor Faye, the unlucky bitch. Things were going to be so messed up from now on. Not to mention how exhausting it would be for Spike to have to consciously be nasty to her. As oppose to unconsciously nasty to her. Now he had an agenda. He hated agendas.
He also hated thinking when he could be sleeping.
With an exasperated sigh he stared up at the ceiling. He was tired of thinking. He had to do something. He swung his legs out to the side and brought his stockinged feet to the floor. The remains of his shredded suit and trench coat lay in a sad heap beside the arm chair. He cursed to himself as he stood up then began to inch his way slowly towards his room, probably made more helpless by the presence of bedsores than his actual injuries. He would have to wear his work clothes.
On his way to his room he poked his head into Faye's. She was standing in the middle of the room holding her gun at her side. He wondered how long she had been standing like that.
"I'm coming with you." He said. Faye didn't turn around at the sound of his voice. She shrugged her shoulders.
"Whatever." She said.